


The Ignoble Art of Surrender

by stonecarapace



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Blindfolds, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Madeleine Era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-12
Updated: 2013-02-12
Packaged: 2017-11-29 02:42:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/681805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stonecarapace/pseuds/stonecarapace
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>"Javert, please," he says, and teases Javert's hands away from his hair. "This is not some sordid affair that needs to be rushed."</i> M. Madeleine fucks Javert slowly, but thoroughly, into a mattress, much to his despair.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Ignoble Art of Surrender

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [The Ignoble Art of Surrender](https://archiveofourown.org/works/755981) by [micorom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/micorom/pseuds/micorom)



> Written for the [kinkmeme,](http://makinghugospin.livejournal.com/9761.html?thread=1408801#t1408801) edited slightly.

Javert buttons up his coat with a flat affect and an unmoved heart. M. Madeleine has not stirred from his bed, opting instead to watch Javert dress with the kind of gaze that has hooks in it, and which Javert does not ever return if he can help it. He has many ways to justify this, the primary of which is the simplest: M. Madeleine is his superior, and what Madeleine wants, Javert will provide. A lowly Inspector would have to be pitiful to deny any superior, but Javert is of the personal (and very private) opinion that to deny Monsieur Madeleine would be beyond even the most rebellious man. 

"Inspector Javert," Madeleine says, apropos nothing, "please tell me what you’re thinking."

Javert adjusts his collar and glances at Madeleine. "I am thinking that it is peculiar that you request my company so often, Monsieur le Maire." 

"I see." Madeleine sits up, but does not bother to fix his disheveled clothes—M. le Maire has a predilection for keeping his attire about him which Javert is grateful for; the less contact he has with Madeleine's skin, the better. "Why is that?"

This Javert needs to consider a moment, composing his thoughts before he speaks. "We are at odds when it comes to the practical execution of the law." He plucks his gloves from his pocket and begins to pull them on, a delicate task that he makes brusque. "You often seem disappointed with my...behavior."

Madeleine shakes his head. "And no wonder! Javert, sometimes I think you are made of iron. I can hardly believe you've ever enjoyed yourself, though your actions speak quite loudly to the contrary." 

In the privacy of this room, Javert feels comfortable enough to offer M. Madeleine a withering glare. Madeleine shrugs it off and runs a hand through his hair. 

"How many times have we been with each other?" he presses, swinging his legs off the bed. 

"Three." 

"Ah, you still don't count—"

"Monsieur le Maire, is there anything else I can help you with?" 

"You can be honest with me."

Javert bristles. "I've never lied in my life, Monsieur," he snaps. Without meaning to, he glances at M. Madeleine's wrists, at his clothed chest and the shaven jaw—he has to suppress the urge to ask, _Have you?_ Although he has been intimate with M. Madeleine in ways he would not have foreseen a month ago, the two still have an impassable distance between them, one which Javert has cultivated and M. Madeleine's natural isolation has aided. It is often that he has to suppress a shudder of disgust at M. Madeleine's passing, even now—perhaps more so now than before. 

Madeleine shakes his head. "Of course not. Always by the book." 

"Monsieur, I do not mean to offend you. Pardon me." Javert has been asked many times if he possesses feelings of any sort; bohemians, criminals, and superiors alike have asked him if he has ever known pity or the stir of mercy in his chest. Once he was even asked, by either a particularly brave or particularly stupid man, if he had ever been in love. He does not wish to suffer M. Madeleine prying in this way, and, certain that the conversation is heading in that direction, holds up a gloved hand to stay it. "I must be returning to my work, now, Monsieur, if I may."

"It is not a sin," Madeleine says. The accuracy with which the statement strikes would impress a veteran marksman, though M. Madeleine's accuracy is merely a coincidence, for he is too wrapped up in his love of God to understand the kind of judgment Javert answers to. "If your issue lies with me, tell me."

Javert studiously adjusts his gloves one more time, fixes his sleeves, and takes his hat from its place on the bedside table. "It does not," he says. He bows, and exits before M. Madeleine can press for more.

*

The days pass into a week, and the week into two, and Inspector Javert and M. Madeleine's paths do not cross. They are both busy men, and Javert is too focused to let a niggling thought trail him through the hours. As far as he's concerned, if that conversation were to be their last, that would be—ideal. His body is not so adjusted to M. Madeleine's that he finds himself missing the other man's touch. And when he begins to think otherwise, he reminds himself that he still has no concrete knowledge of M. Madeleine's past, and that the man's face is like an old, old dream, obscured by a river's silt. 

At the end of the second week, M. Madeleine summons him once more. The letter has been stuck under Javert's door, and he treads on it before he notices, leaving a dirty print on the fine, creamy paper. The writing is M. Madeleine's script, a delicate and sloping writing. The message within is very simple: _9 o'clock, the usual. —Madeleine._ Javert exhales—out of relief, or frustration, or trepidation, or all three in a flurry in his gut. He wets his lips.

Madeleine does not live so far away, and the distance is shorter when Javert's stride is so quick. He raps on the door and forces himself to stand at parade rest until M. Madeleine answers; they exchange mild greetings and M. Madeleine shows him to his sitting room, where a fire is in the hearth. The worst part for Javert is the beginning, when there are so many ways for things to go wrong and he feels trapped under a great weight. Ordinarily, M. Madeleine seems similarly inclined, but tonight he takes his time, bringing Javert meat, cheese, and tea, and plying him with innocent questions about his work.

The dawdling will soon drive him out of his mind. If he has to compress another answer into a dismissive, clipped sentence, he will overstep his boundaries and find his own way to shut M. Madeleine's intolerable mouth. His hands methodically close into fists no matter how many times he relaxes them, and when he's not focused on that, he's fiddling with whatever is closest to him—first his hat, then his cup of tea, then, when its usefulness has expired, a handkerchief that he doesn't recall putting in his pocket. 

Finally, blessedly, M. Madeleine puts away the food and plants himself before Javert's chair. Javert bites the inside of his cheek, anticipating the taste of M. Madeleine's cock. 

"Are you afraid of the dark?" Madeleine asks.

The question is so ridiculous that Javert forgets his anticipation. "Of course not."

M. Madeleine leans down and sets his hands on the armrests, so that Javert is trapped where he sits, and he has his full attention when he asks, "Do you trust me?"

Ah, to ask him such a question! M. le Maire, to Javert's knowledge—which he has earned with thorough, though incomplete, research—has done no wrong; not to Montreuil sur Mer or to Javert. But there is still a part of him that doubts, small as it is. Javert takes a moment to mull over his answer, knowing that M. Madeleine will only be satisfied with the most complete response. 

"If I did not trust you," he finally says, "I would not have come today, Monsieur le Maire. And," he continues, before M. Madeleine can interrupt, "more importantly, I trust in your sense of propriety." 

"I see." M. Madeleine straightens to his full height. He reaches for his back pocket, and extracts from it a long, silk scarf. "Then have you any objections to wearing this tonight, Javert?" At Javert's blank response, he clarifies: "Only over your eyes, unless you protest."

It seems an odd request, but Javert is merely relieved that it is not more disturbing. He's witnessed the things people do to each other in the clutch of lustful fancy, and it is a fortunate thing that M. Madeleine seems as mild-mannered in that respect as he is in all other parts of his life. "I do not, Monsieur." He tilts his head up and shuts his eyes, relaxed. 

The silk is cool against his face, and the knot tight.

The darkness is disorienting, but Javert accepts it with grace. His threshold for discomfort is higher than other men's, provided it doesn't stem from his failings, and M. Madeleine is a thoughtful man. A respectable man. At that thought, Javert is struck by an intense curiosity—he wants to see M. Madeleine, though it's silly to think that he's changed much in the few seconds since Javert donned the blindfold. With what hooks would he be rending Javert's flesh? The curiosity manifests as a prickling warmth all over his body. 

M. Madeleine pats his cheek affectionately. "Here—stay close to me." He wraps an arm around Javert and helps him stand, which is ridiculous. Javert is blinded, not inert. Still, the undeniable presence of M. Madeleine's body is a welcome harbor in this strange new sea, and he keeps close as they make their precarious way across the room. To M. Madeleine's credit, Javert does not stub his toe on anything, and he only bumps his elbow against the doorframe on the way into M. Madeleine's bedroom. Madeleine actually whispers his apology, so close to Javert's ear that he startles. 

They stop in what Javert assumes is the middle of the room, and M. Madeleine begins to undress him. Not wanting to jab M. le Maire in the eye with a wayward hand, Javert keeps his arms at his side and waits, bending obligingly when Madeleine requires it. When Madeleine tugs his undershirt over his head, the blindfold slips off one of Javert's eyes, and he peeks at Madeleine—to his amusement, Madeleine sternly frowns at the mishap. It would seem that a slipped piece of cloth requires a firmer hand than the unrepentant scum of the street. M. Madeleine takes the time to remove the blindfold, refold it, and retie it, taking extra care to ensure the knot is secure. Once done, he tugs at it to test how far it will slip—hardly at all, now. 

M. Madeleine hums, satisfied, and begins work on removing Javert's trousers. He kneels with a rustling sound, and Javert can imagine it, M. Madeleine appraising his Inspector as his rough hands take him apart. The prickling warmth has begun to pool in Javert's gut and manifest as goosebumps on his exposed thighs. M. Madeleine traces Javert's thigh with his tongue and ends it with a chaste kiss just over his knee. Then he stands again, and his broad hands guide Javert until the backs of his legs touch the bed; he sits, thighs spread, M. Madeleine's spit cooling on his skin. Javert supposes he should be self-conscious, but this is nothing M. Madeleine hasn't seen before.

Well, the blindfold is new. 

M. Madeleine leaves Javert where he is and busies himself with a shuffling task that Javert assumes is undressing. In the meantime, Javert allows himself to take note of his surroundings, limited as his observations are—for instance, M. Madeleine's coverlet is not as soft as he'd supposed it to be, but sturdy and warm, well-used. The room smells of the sharp smoke of candles and ink. M. Madeleine's breath is noticeable in the quiet of the room, and the wind outside shakes the window to no avail. As he doesn't have much else to go off, Javert thumbs at the trail of spit and bites the impatience back on his tongue, unhappy with the images his mind procures regarding Madeleine's various states of undress, none of which Javert has actually seen. 

The first time they were together, it was four months after Javert's transfer—he met with Madeleine several times for professional reasons, and then made the mistake of taking business to M. Madeleine's home. They talked of business, Javert attempted to return the rosary, and from there it was done, without either man intending it to happen—Javert had Madeleine's length in his hand; Madeleine's grip was fierce at Javert's collar. They were quiet, and the sun shone in through the window all the while.

The second time, Javert drew M. Madeleine's ire by criticizing his conduct with his inferiors—and at a sharp word from M. le Maire, Javert took to his knees before him. He considered it proving a point.

The third time, they did not bother with pretenses. After providing M. Madeleine with a report, Javert accepted the man's invitation to sup together. The table was not half-set before Javert was naked and privy to M. Madeleine's full powers of persuasion.

There was not a fourth time. M. Madeleine merely fancies himself a more influential man than he is.

Among this handful of memories are a few common threads: M. Madeleine never undressed more than strictly necessary, they did not kiss, Javert did not stay longer than it took to regain his bearings, and Javert always buckled to Monsieur le Maire's will. As far as he is concerned, this is a matter of convenience for M. Madeleine, nothing more—after all, why should a man who never offers a sympathetic heart expect such a thing in return?

If M. Madeleine were to be asked what he remembers the most from each encounter, his answer would be quite different—but Javert is not vain, and, even if he thought to ask, would not believe the answer. (Foremost in M. Madeleine's mind: his supplication—his hitching breaths—his openly dour expression when displeased and, above all, his flustered one when pleased.) 

A bottle clinks on the bedside table. Instinctively, he cocks his head toward the sound, harmless though it is; he is rewarded with a hand in the crook of his shoulder and M. Madeleine's dry lips on his jaw. "Forgive me for keeping you," Madeleine murmurs.

Javert swallows. "Of course, Monsieur."

M. Madeleine wraps his bare arms around Javert, and his weight sinks into the mattress behind him. The naked skin of his chest presses into Javert's back, and he traces his lips along Javert's stern jawline. "I appreciate your patience with me, Inspector."

"A man has to be," Javert says. The wryness is, he knows, a poor defense, and one he should not entertain when in M. Madeleine's presence. Javert should like someone to challenge this, however—the deliberate way Madeleine paves a hand down Javert's chest would make anyone lose his sense of what is proper behavior. He passes his fingers over Javert's nipple without stopping to grant it more attention than that; that alone could drive a firm man to madness.

"Yes, that is true." M. Madeleine turns Javert's face toward him and lightly presses a trail of kisses back down his jaw. The hand skirts against Javert's other nipple but does not touch it, even when Javert twists his chest toward it—instead, M. Madeleine takes his face in both of his hands, tenderly. "You are good to bear it." 

He kisses Javert, then, his mouth parted. He leaves a light pressure there, and moves to suck at Javert's bottom lip, then back to a full-mouthed kiss, and Javert still has enough sense to remind himself that M. Madeleine is a misguided soul in many ways, and that it would be a terrible thing for his stupidity to affect Javert. Then M. Madeleine's tongue flicks against Javert's closed lips, and for a long, long time, Javert does not think about anything else but how good it feels to have M. Madeleine's hands massaging his body and his tongue testing at Javert's. When it's clear that M. Madeleine has no intention of making any sudden movements that might put him to harm, Javert allows himself to touch M. Madeleine in return, though he is hesitant to do more than stroke his face and neck and marvel at the strength of the sinew under his skin.

At length, M. Madeleine lays Javert on his back. With that simple action, he also breaks the kiss, giving Javert opportunity to drink in air in hasty gasps and time to come back to himself. The spell of closeness broken, Javert allows himself to act as he wants: He finds M. Madeleine's curls and yanks so that Madeleine's neck is exposed—a sight he is sore to miss. M. Madeleine grunts, but does not resist when Javert begins to roll his hips up against his with sharp thrusts. For several moments he allows it to continue, straddling Javert, straining, his cock hot between them.

He sighs with disappointment. "Javert, please," he says, and teases Javert's hands away from his hair. "This is not some sordid affair that needs to be rushed. There is nothing wrong with this," and he demonstrates thus with a slow, chaste kiss that makes Javert's heart falter.

Javert's chest wrings with fear. No, it can't be fear—but something close to it. When he had only to focus on making Madeleine finish, this was simple—but for M. Madeleine to bring softness, to offer...what, mercy? Salvation?—Javert doesn't know if he can take it. Javert swallows several times as M. Madeleine kisses under the line of the blindfold, and he tries each time to speak. Finally, he manages to say, "What do you want from me, Monsieur?"

"Your honesty—nothing more." 

It is in Javert's humble opinion that he is asking very much more than that, but he does not dare to say so. When M. Madeleine releases his wrists, Javert mutely loops his arms around M. Madeleine's neck and nestles his mouth against M. Madeleine's cheek. Fine. He will wait this out. He will remain unfazed. M. Madeleine will feel proud of himself, and Javert will go home and forget this ever happened. 

M. Madeleine's hands cup the back of Javert's thighs and part them; he guides Javert's knees back until he is open and exposed to the cool air of the room. The bed creaks as M. Madeleine shifts about; he asks Javert several times if he's comfortable, if this is fine, are you sure, and Javert grunts his impatient assent each time. 

Cool slickness drips onto Javert, and he hisses in surprise. Madeleine sets the bottle back down and begins to massage the slick oil against Javert's taut entrance. Javert tenses; the ministrations are thorough and the attention dismaying. Madeleine shushes Javert, kissing under his ear, along his cheek. Javert's cock strains against his belly; the heat is intolerable between them. 

Madeleine does not push his fingers inside. Instead, once satisfied that his job has been well done, he grips Javert's legs with his slick hands and rests the length of his prick along Javert's entrance. "It's alright," he says, mistaking the source of Javert's choked sound for anxiety. "Relax. Shh, relax." 

Javert digs his nails into M. Madeleine's back. Madeleine guides his hardness against Javert. M. Madeleine's focused silence gives way to soft mutterings against Javert's neck; the tip of his cock presses down. Though M. Madeleine's generous application of oil has readied Javert, it still seems too great a task to push inside—but he goes slowly, too slowly, and Javert's thighs relax, the taut muscles of his lower back relax, and Madeleine breaches him in a long, long stroke. Stretched by the head of M. Madeleine's cock, Javert can only arch against M. Madeleine and grit his teeth and try his best not to moan as, inch by inch, M. Madeleine pushes inside. It seems that the moment might go on forever—but not even mountains can last forever, and soon M. Madeleine has gone as far as possible.

There, he stops, buried deep. Javert does not know when he started panting.

"Very good, Javert," he murmurs into his mouth. Javert whimpers. M. Madeleine kisses the noise out of him, then repeats: "You've done so well. As always, I am impressed."

"Thank you, Monsieur," Javert says. He can feel M. Madeleine smile against his neck—and then he moves.

Javert has no idea from what well of patience M. Madeleine draws. His hips begin to roll with a lurid sweetness that would be loving if it weren't for such a vulgar task. His slippery hands cover Javert's body with excess oil and leave behind the slow burn of pleasure; he leisurely strokes Javert's aching erection when the fancy strikes him, but with no consistency. Scrabbling for purchase, Javert's hands seek further down M. Madeleine's back—and it's only then that M. Madeleine forgoes his patient worship of Javert's body, taking his wrists and pinning them over his head again. 

"You've done no wrong," he says. "Just let me have you." 

Javert is deeply grateful when he closes the statement with a long, deep kiss, for it tempers any sounds he might make. As Madeleine takes him with his deep, sure thrusts, as he kisses Javert and, between kisses, showers him with praise, a change overcomes Javert. Some chasm opens in his chest, one which M. Madeleine drips assurances into until Javert is brimming with—with he knows not what.

In a last attempt at keeping his dignity, Javert chokes out, "Have me faster, will you?"

M. Madeleine slows down.

The window shivers in the darkness; the roof creaks. M. Madeleine, an honest, respectable man, drowns Javert with his benevolence. They move together in the darkness.

"I would follow you," M. Madeleine breathes, "to the end of the earth, if you wished."

It is too much. Javert can only be grateful for what the blindfold hides.

*

The sky is black; the embers in the hearth are dead. M. Madeleine drifted to sleep an hour ago, but Javert has still not found the strength to leave his bed. It is not so terrible a thing.


End file.
